


Complications

by discountsatanism



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BUT yeah there's no cheating, TAZ: Dust, also connors is mentioned but very briefly, because connors annoys me, but the happy ending part of it is there also, edit: after a recent comment i would like to make it clear that, i get that two people talking about that guy they loved who was brutally murdered SOUNDS like angst, i mean it's not polyamory because one person is dead, nobody cheats in this, so it's kind of too late considering jeremiah's already gone & not a ghost, sorry for the confusion, the tags are there because this thing is mostly them talking about their relationships, who's ready for some Communication About Unresolved Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 04:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14097138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discountsatanism/pseuds/discountsatanism
Summary: Dylan and Anne talk about some things.





	Complications

**Author's Note:**

> my coordination's been iffy all day so i guess we just have to collectively hope i my fingers didn't slip and write a tangent about meteorology instead of a fanfic or anything, or worse, a bad fanfic instead of the good one i was intending to create. basically let's hope that if i accidentally wrote about the weather it also happens to be a good dust fanfic, like as a metaphor

Anne and Dylan talk, eventually. They spend the first month barely talking, and even when Dylan is walking again Anne is suddenly a constant patron of the Full Moon Saloon which is a little too far for him to walk without getting exhausted. He’s still sleeping more than usual, too, and it’s a little convenient that she always takes off about half an hour before he wakes up.

He doesn’t begrudge her it, at first, mostly because he’s equally eager to sweep everything back under the rug now that Jeremiah has been avenged and they can go back to Anne being Jeremiah’s widow and Dylan being sad to have lost a friend.

Unfortunately, he loves his sister, and he likes talking to her.

So, they talk. He’s not tired enough to be unable to stay up any more, so he sits at the table and waits.

He nods off, eventually, but the sound of the door opening jerks him awake. Staring blearily at the door, he waves.

Anne waves back, and starts closing the door again.

“Wait-!” he croaks.

She sighs, and re-opens it. “What?”

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Right. . .now?”

He was planning on it, but it turns out theoretically healthy enough to stay up for 28 consecutive hours and healthy enough to stay up for 28 consecutive hours are different things. “. . .Can you wait ‘till mornin’? ‘Stead of leavin’?”

She looks back out into the night, then back at him. “Sure, why not,” she says quietly, shutting the door behind her. “I’ll wait ‘till you wake up.”

“Thanks,” he says.

He ends up falling asleep at the table, which doesn’t affect the fact that he wakes up in bed, somehow.

Anne, true to her word, is at the table. “Hey,” she says.

He waves. “Hi.”

“You wanted to talk?”

He nods.

“Well, sit down,” she says.

“About. . .Jeremiah,” he says once he’s seated. “Is that why you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

“‘Cause you were in love with him?” she asks.

He nods.

“Nope,” Anne replies. “I’m not gonna say I always knew, ‘cause I didn’t actually put the pieces together until our wedding day, but I’m not mad at you for it.”

Dylan blinks. “Oh,” he says. “That’s. . .good. Why, then?”

“It’s. . .petty,” she says. “You saw him last.” She scratches the back of her neck awkwardly. “I didn’t hear his last words, and I didn’t even get to help _you_ when you decided to take the fall for it.”

“‘I’m sorry’,” he says. “His last words. They were I’m sorry. I don’t. . .I don’t know if they were to me.”

“Who else would they be to?”

“You,” he says. “I don’t know. What’d he be sorry for me for?”

“Leavin’ you so soon,” Anne says, “the last argument you had that you didn’t do shit about, not lettin’ you know how much he cared about you, that kinda thing. Dyin’ makes people sappy, especially to people they love.”

Dylan flinches. “You can’t just _say_ that,” he squeaks.

“It’s true,” she insists. “I can guarantee one hundred percent that if he didn’t love you we wouldn’tve been married. Don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.”

Despite himself, Dylan cracks a smile at that. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No worries.”

“I’m glad you didn’t get to see him last, really,” he says. “Nothin’ to ruin your night quite like seein’ the love of your life bleedin’ out in the street.”

Anne sighs. “Maybe. I guess it’s a good thing that the last time I saw him, he was happy.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she says. “I’m glad you’re safe, and alive, and I’m damn proud of you for gettin’ rid of Sheriff Connors.”

“Thanks?” he says tentatively.

“And, just to be clear,” she continues. “I’m really not mad at you. You’re my dumb, loyal brother, I love you to death, and I’m glad you’re alive.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Anne.”

-

They joke eventually, too. It takes a while for talking about Jeremiah to lose its sting, but eventually Anne’s insistence that Jeremiah hated cornbread and only ate it because he didn’t want to make Dylan feel bad when it was the only thing he could make becomes a staple of their customary sibling bickering over meals, and Jeremiah teaching Anne how to pick locks without telling Dylan becomes something they mutter about under their breath when they feel betrayed. Comedy is tragedy plus time, it turns out, no matter how much time it takes.

“You can’t put orange juice in coffee,” Anne says.

Dylan looks up. “What else are we gonna do with it?”

“We wouldn’t have to decide that if you stopped lettin’ Mr. Ryehouse give you so much food!”

“How’m I supposed to refuse?” he asks. “He’s. . .he’s _nice_!”

Anne squints. “Jeremiah would want you to say no.”

“You don’t know that,” Dylan protests. “Maybe he’d want me to be nice an’ polite an’ not make people feel bad for bein’ nice enough to give me gifts.”

“Jeremiah’d want you to be honest.”

“He’d understand!”

“Or maybe-“ Someone knocks, and Anne looks back at the door. “If that’s who I think it is, now’s your chance.”

Dylan gets up and opens the door. “Hello, Mr. Ryehouse! Are you here for your plates back? We have ‘em washed and everything.”

Errol blinks. “Oh, sure, if you don’t want ‘em I’ll take ‘em. Can I come in?”

He steps aside.

“Hey, Anne!” Errol calls. “How’s it goin’?”

Anne waves politely. “Alright. What’s that you’re carryin’, Mr. Ryehouse?”

“Jam,” he says, holding up the crate. “I had leftovers from the potluck.”

“Thank you,” Dylan says, taking the crate and ignoring the burning glare Anne’s hitting him with.

“It’s pear,” Errol adds. “The jam. Made it myself.”

“You’ve been givin’ us a whole lot of food recently,” Anne says pointedly.

Errol shrugs. “I like makin’ things,” he says. “You folks got any recommendations? Because I would be happy to accommodate ‘em.”

Dylan grimaces. “No, we’re good. We’re still workin’ on the orange juice.”

“And the bread,” Anne adds.

“And the fruit.”

“And the honey.”

“And the pie.”

Errol tilts his head. “I am gettin’ the strong implication that you’d like me to _quit_ bringin’ you things.”

“Maybe,” Dylan whispers.

“Good to know,” he replies. He looks at the crate. “If you don’t want that I can take it back, I guess. . .”

“We’ll keep the jam,” Dylan says quickly. “No reason for you to waste the trip.”

“But if you don’t-“

“We do,” he assures him. “Your food’s very good, Mr. Ryehouse, we just have a lot of it.”

“Alrighty then,” Errol says. “I suppose you don’t actually want to come over to-“

“I do,” Dylan says. “Helpin’ you with your garden sounds real nice.”

He brightens. “Oh, good then. I’ll be off now. I guess.”

“Have a nice day!”

Dylan turns back to Anne.

She looks at the jam. “You’re eatin’ all of that yourself.”

“I know.”


End file.
